Heat flares in my chest. “We didn’t ask for your protection then, either.”
“No,” he agrees calmly. “You asked for nothing. And now you’re asking for everything.”
I step closer to the table, bracing my hands against its edge. “We’re asking for cooperation. Mutual benefit.”
“Benefit,” he repeats, testing the word. His gaze flicks briefly to the sigil at my throat, and my pulse jumps. “Your coven is bleeding magic. The blight is not a border problem, it’s a structural collapse. Whatever you think you’re offering, it won’t be enough to stabilize it.”
“You don’t know that,” I snap.
“I do,” he says softly. “Because I can feel it.”
That stops me.
The air between us hums, subtle, almost imagined, but my skin tightens all the same, like it’s responding to something I can’t see. I straighten, suddenly aware of how close he is now, how little space separates us.
“If you have a better solution,” I say carefully, “then say it.”
His eyes darken, something unreadable passing through them. When he finally speaks, his voice is low. Controlled.
“There is one thing,” he says, “that binds magic at its root. Not symbolically. Not politically.”
I hold his gaze, heart pounding.
“What?” I ask.
His answer is quiet. Dangerous.
“A mate bond.”
Silence falls so fast I can hear the blood in my ears.
I laugh, once. Harsh. "You’re joking."
"I am not."
"That bond is sacred. It isn’t a tool for politics."
"Everything is a tool, Heir Crow."
I stand so fast the chair skitters back. "Absolutely not. Find another way."
Zeidan doesn’t rise. He just watches me. "There is no other way. Your Matron sent you here because she knows that."
"She sent me to negotiate, not to chain myself to a Vrakken."
His eyes narrow slightly, but his voice remains calm. "A bond would offer more than symbolism. It would stabilize the magic. Create a conduit between us. One that could slow the blight."
My heart pounds. Because some part of me knows he’s right. And that terrifies me more than anything.
"I need time," I say.
Zeidan nods once. "You have until dawn."
I storminto the guest quarters they’ve given me—luxurious, cold, and too quiet. My satchel lands hard on the marble floor. I pace, each step echoing off walls carved with old Vrakken runes. I recognize some. Others feel like they’re watching me.
A mate bond. It would start to bind me to him. Physically. Magically. Maybe more. Every part of me rebels at the thought.
The sigil on my chest pulses. Once, twice, then steadies.
